


Taking Over the World

by poprika



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2010 Winter Olympics, BAMF!Canada, Canadian Pride, Gen, Hockey, Swearing, utter crack really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poprika/pseuds/poprika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2010 Winter Olympics, Whistler, British Columbia. The nations gather in a dim bar to watch and gossip as Canada faces down some of the most powerful countries in the world for his Hockey Gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Over the World

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Swearing, Canadian pride, hockey, a bit of violence, did I mention the overdose of Canada in this?

America should have known better than to gloat.

He _really_ should have known better. Later that night, standing in the middle of his room with one eye rimmed as purple as his twin’s, he’d realize this. He _should have_ known better.

“I won!!!”

It wasn’t even then that the trouble started, though that was the beginning. His pumping fists, victorious grin, glasses reflecting the score flashing on the screen (5-2; 5-2; 5-2 for _America_ , what an upset, what a game!), all that- that was really just to be expected of him. He was still safe then, tightrope walking that thin line.

Really, it wasn’t even when he pointed a finger at his twin and called him a ‘freaking loser’, or cracked open a beer and yelled ‘it’s Miller time!’.

No, it was when he turned to Canada, slung an arm over his shoulder and yelled:

“Your gold is _mine!_ ”

And, bingo: the line was crossed, the tightrope walker teetered over the edge and suddenly there was a hockey stick smashing into his face.

America hit the ground hard, his head snapped back from the blow, glasses thrown to the floor and left eye throbbing. The nation’s chest heaved in surprise. Vancouver was silent.

He brought a shaky hand to his face, carefully prodding his eye and winced when his fingers touched an especially sore spot, right by his temple where the curve of the stick had hit the hardest. Shock wore away and the hot tendrils of anger took its place.

“Mattie, what the _fuc_ -”

He was cut off again with a stick to the face. He winced back, arms up to protect himself from another blow, but it never came. The hockey stick was held steady; end inches from his nose, and America couldn’t help but picture being threatened at sword-point.

“Don’t forget whose house you’re in,”

America shivered; he couldn’t remember ever seeing such a cold-eyed glare on his brother before (like his eyes were Nunavut in the middle of a blizzard, all ice and glaciers and the midnight sun blazing down with no heat at all).

“ _eh?”_

The stereotypical slur was practically spat in his face. America, for once speechless, could only gape up at the (quiet? Peaceful? Not quite. Not quite when it came to hockey) nation of the north.

The tip of the hockey stick pushed against his nose in a last, _polite_ reminder of a threat (America went crossed eyed, but refused to lean away) before withdrawing. Without another word, Canada spun on his heel and left.

∞

It was Tuesday afternoon, two days after said match and said confrontation, and Canada hadn’t spoken once.

Not like the nation’s silence was anything new to the world. Many couldn’t even recall a time when Canada could be describe as ‘loud’, let alone remember him talking _at all_. But this silence was different:

It was noticeable.

Canada wasn’t a quiet ghost in the background of the world’s mind. He was everywhere; prowling around the Olympic Village- a quiet, brooding thing with eyes like the arctic, sixty degrees below zero and on top of the world- once they saw him, they couldn’t _not._ Canada had never been quite _so_ before. 

“Just a sore loser,” America told anyone who asked (though the nations would only look at his black eye and raise a brow). “I beat him at his own game and he just can’t accept it.”

“That may be true,” France sighed one day, when the countries had a rare break and were gathered around a table in the America House (the one in Whistler, of course). “Mathieu _so_ wanted the gold in his hockey.”

“He can still get it.” England grumbled, unsure of which North American he should be cheering for, but more confused about the damned _game_ (really, why did his colonies have to make up such strange sports? Football was _soccer_ damn it and no game should ever go near ice).

Russia’s smile was curved a bit too much to be called innocent and the other nations fidgeted and averted their eyes when he spoke.

“Da, but Canada will have to beat Germany before that. _And then_ ,” he said, flashing France his full smile (the one with teeth and narrowed eyes and a sort of chaotic twist in the lips) before he could interrupt. “Little Canada will have to defeat _me._ ”

The nations went quiet; Russia giggled. France cleared his throat, looking up and away when he answered.

“You are very confident.”

Russia nodded. “Matthew is a nice boy. I’ll enjoy crushing him to pieces.”

Silence fell over the table like a figure skater slipping on the ice. Someone coughed. Glances were exchanged; fidgeting ensued and even after the world turned back to give him incredulous stares, Ivan was still smiling.

Germany gave a long sigh and resisted the urge to drown the rest of his beer.

“I must agree with Russia; Canada will have quite the challenge ahead of him if he wants gold,” he offered in an attempt to break the silence. Russia nodded along with him and Germany tried to ignore his twisted smile. “He will have to go through some of the strongest powers in the world.”

More nodding. It was very easy to agree with Germany’s logical opinion. However, Japan was shaking his head.

“You underestimate him, Germany-san.” He said in his soft, reasonable voice, as if they were discussing a war and not hockey (was there a difference, in this case?). “Wasn’t Canada the one who invented the game? His team is one of the best in the world.”

Russia and America, naturally, took offence to this comment and leaned forward as if to argue, but Germany glared them into silence.

“But…” he paused, as if he’d forgotten. “It’s _Canada_.” As if that explained his doubt (it must’ve, because other nations murmured in agreement).

Japan nodded sagely.

“ _And_ it’s hockey.”

And that was it; case closed. Not one nation could argue Canada’s dedication and love of the sport and the world knew how serious he took it. Canada was front and centre when it came to hockey, far from the shadow in the background at world meetings.

“Well,” Germany said, resolutely getting to his feet. A smirk lifted his lips as he pulled his jacket on, “I won’t go easy on him just because he’s host.”

France and England exchanged a quiet glance; they knew not to underestimate Germany’s power. But… Canada simply _couldn’t_ lose the match tonight. And, well, as much as Germany was confident…

It was America who, leaning back in his chair as Germany made his way to the door, said what everyone was thinking:

“Prepare to get your ass handed to ya.” With a cheery blue-eyed smile.

If Germany was bothered by America’s confidence in his twin, he didn’t show it. Instead, he simply raised a hand in a wave as he left,

“We’ll see about that.”

∞

Germany returned to that crowded wooden table a few hours later and the nations there couldn’t help their surprised (or delighted, in _some_ cases) gasps. It was a stunned silence, as if the world had been splashed in the face with Arctic water.

It was Italy who broke it. He burst out of their shocked tableau to his feet, his chair teetering for a moment before Japan steadied it with a quick hand. Italy didn’t notice.

“Germany!” He cried, instantly at the other nation’s side, hands fluttering over the blood and bruises like a mother hen to her chick.

Japan blinked his eyes firmly, sat straighter and regarded Germany with a tilted head.

“You look like you’ve escaped a war.” He said.

Germany wiped blood from his chin with the back of his blistered hand (it only smeared the red streak across his cheek). His hand didn’t wipe away his sneer either as he brushed Italy away long enough to drop into his usual seat. Blue eyes were icy where they glared at the mug-stained surface of the table (which had become the Olympics’ very own world council, it seemed). Germany gritted his teeth, took a sharp breath as if to deliver an indignant (complaint? Attack? Protest?) growl, but heaved it in like a heavy thing and let it go as a tremendous sigh instead. Italy petted his hair and dabbed at his cuts with a paper napkin as Germany dropped his frown to his hands. Another moment (in which the world shared a look and a shrug) and he raised his gaze.

“He brushed me aside like a dusting of snow.” ( _‘We want Russia- we want Russia’_ ) said with a kind of grudging respect and awe that made his deep voice rough and airy. “I…. thought I _knew_ hockey.” Germany added, eyes drifting from one country to another, as if looking for some understanding amidst their confusion. They stared back and none knew what to say. Germany frowned, turned his thoughts inwards briefly before giving the world a shrug. “I thought I knew _Canada_.”

Because, as they all said (and will say, would say, will _always_ say): ‘but it’s _Canada_ ’ As if it was the only explanation needed. As if they couldn’t imagine him being anything but see-through (when they remembered to think of him at all). But now, slowlyslowly, it was turning into: ‘ _This_ is Canada… isn’t it?’ because they couldn’t ignore the determination in those violet eyes, reflected in a million other stares across a span of land larger than most of them. They had been given the taste of the raw power underneath the quiet smile and lowered eyes. And for once- for once,

_‘Jesus Christ,_ there _he is.’_

The gathered nations took in Germany’s ripped shirt, mussed hair (was that a _chunk_ missing?), bloodied nosejawnecklips and had no rebuttal, argument or retort; just a thin disbelief and Canada’s ruthless revenge. Silence joined them for another quick visit, was kicked out a moment later when everyone started talking at once.

“That’s my boy, Mathieu~”

“ _You’re_ boy?!”

“England, this is hardly the time-”

“Don’t get angry, England, it makes your eyebrows look huge.”

“My _eyebrows_ -”

“I can’t believe you were beaten by _Canada_ -”

“Germany obviously lacks the necessary skill.”

“Do not worry; it’s my turn next. Germany, shall I kill him slowly?”

The said nation’s hand found his forehead. “ _Russia_ , there’s no need for murder.”

The response was another one of those sharp smiles. Eyes closed in mirth, lips stretched upwards, but somehow still able to cause a shiver to run down the spine.

“Germany,” said with a patronizing patience and that damned smile. Hand on his chest, “I’m _Russia_ , da? Canada won’t be able to beat me.”

Germany’s own lips turned down in a grimace and it was like Ovechkin was there too grinning the same _fucking_ grin as his country, overflowing with confidence and _damn_ these northern countries to hell, with their Greats, Great Ones and Next Ones. 

Italy patted his hand and asked something (probably if he was all right or if he wanted a drink- most likely if he wanted a hug. He would probably be given one either way so Germany didn’t answer) and Germany sighed again, leaned back in his chair, felt his muscles stretch and ache, and the blood on his chin all cracked and red.

“Well, Russia,” he said, lips twitching into his own sarcastic smirk. “I guess it’s up to you then.”

When he finally got his hands on a beer he chugged it down before realizing it was Molson Canadian. He glared at the maple leaf, but remembered the determination in purple eyes and the face of a country cheering for something (really) so trivial and vital-

and, god _damn_ it, this was actually going to be _good_ , wasn’t it?

∞

When Getzlaf scored the first goal, the stands erupted into howls and cheers; in the dim bar, both France and England found themselves sharing a proud grin (before realizing _who_ they were smiling at and quickly turning back to the TV to pretend that it didn’t happen), though Austria reminded them sternly not to get their hopes up (“Remember what happened on Sunday.” He said and the three old nations glanced at America, who was smirking).

But ten minutes later, it was Boyle’s name on the board with another goal for Canada, Russia still trailing behind. The Canadians were ruthless, like a pack of wolves picking off a prey of caribou, one buck at a time. The Russians were quick, turning over the puck so fast it was hard to follow (to those with an untrained eye), but Canada never failed to counterattack.

Alex the Great? Not if Canada could help it. Ovechkin was covered, red and white and maple leaves on all sides- Toews, Richards and Nash blanketing the Russian giant and refusing to back down, as if Canada himself had met that Russian smile with one of his own ( _You’re not the only one with an_ XL).

Then: Nash, Morrow, Perry, Weber, and Perry again and those nations, crowded around their (world) table with their beers forgotten in their hands could only watch, mouths agape, as the score crept up to 7-2.

The game ended with Vancouver erupting into celebration. On the TV, Canada was nothing but hardened lilac eyes and determination, standing between Babcock and Yazerman with his arms crossed. His glasses reflected the score and he nodded once.

His opponent was nowhere to be seen.

And in that little bar in Whistler, the nations of the world all started talking at once as the streets outside boomed with shouts and cheers and red and white lights.

When Russia joined them, he joined them with a burst of arctic air (not at all caused by the country they were currently in. Vancouver had been sunny and mild that day and was alight with laughter and celebration that night) and a chilling smile. His face was bruised, hair mussed, but it was the edge in his eyes that caused the temperature to plummet.

He approached the table with heavy steps that hit the wooden floor like a hunter’s, marching through thick snow towards his prey after a well aimed shot, blood smeared on the white like so much red paint. The room dropped off into silence, as if it were a tiger approaching ( _don’t’ move; it might not see you if you just_ stay still). Lithuania was shaking when Russia stopped in front of his chair. 

“I’m sitting here, da?” he asked pleasantly. And sat down. Lithuania dived to the floor.

“So, Russia,” America said, grabbing a (free) chair and dragging it over. He turned it backwards and sat down, facing the older nation with bright blue eyes and an easy grin (either it was a very good act, or he didn’t notice the killing intent curling through the room like waves). “What the heck happened out there?”

Russia didn’t answer, just contemplated the American as if wondering how best to dismember him. America seemed to take his silence as an invitation to continue, “I mean honestly, man? You sucked!”

There was a dull _thump_ as England, who had been watching the exchange (protectively- _carefully_ ) from a few seats away, decided it was a good time for his face to meet the smooth wood of the table. America shot him a confused glance.

“You’re drunk _already_ , old man? You’re not even done your first beer!”

England struggled to his feet (a nice, big red spot in between his two (generous) eyebrows) and grabbed America by the shoulders.

“I think we should give Russia some time alone.” He said through gritted teeth.

America glared up at him. “We’re in the middle of an important conversation here. You wouldn’t understand; you suck at hockey.”

Russia watched as England smacked America upside the head. He laughed (giggled?), a high, innocent sound that made shivers crawl down England’s spine.

“Your colonies are so troublesome, England.” Russia purred, leaning forward to straighten America’s glasses.  “They need to be taught some… discipline.”

England laughed, but it was a weak and frail thing.

“Well, as you may know, he and Canada aren’t a part of-”

Russia interrupted him with a smile and threaded his gloved hand in Albert’s fine, blond hair. “I could do it for you, if you like.” He tilted his head to the side, regarding America with lidded eyes like a cat. “I’m very good at providing a _firm_ hand.”

England’s smile was strained. “That’s quite all right, Iva-”

“Didn’t help ‘ya much against Canada though, did it?” America threw in, as England tried to drag him away. He leaned forward, shrugged England’s hands off and gave Russia s snarky grin. “Didn’t even make it to the quarter finals. Finland did. Hell, _Slovakia_ did- No offence, man~”

“None taken, my friend! I’m just glad to be here.”

“ _Anyway_ , I’m just sayin’,” America was grinning ear to ear like the Cheshire (with England the White Rabbit at his shoulder looking like he was going to faint) as he got up from his chair, all suave and smug and not caring that Russia seemed to be planning mass murder. “Maybe you’ll do better in Sochi.”

It was a good thing that America left then, patting a stunned and frozen England on the shoulder on his way out, because Russia’s eyes were shadowed and darkness seemed to cloud around him like a thick cloak.

At least, that’s what England thought.

He backed away slowly ( _no sudden movements_ ), trying at a shaky smile (with hands raised as if warding off an attack). “Well, I’m sure you’re tired, so I’m just going to… go…”

He didn’t run away, really. Just backed up really quickly. Not quite a run, though he still managed to look like a fool. France laughed, across the room but England still heard him and he was very suddenly right in France’s face.

“Shut up, you bloody transvestite!” he yelled. France immediately fell silent, his expression slack ( _did he really just_ -) but suddenly, England seemed to deflate, and sank into the chair beside him before the Frenchman could retort. “I need a beer.”

“You should have kept your rather large nose out of their business.” France chided, brushing fine blond hair behind his ear (in a gesture so gracefully practiced that it seemed an unconscious act).

England glared at him, thick brows drawn together (so near, in fact, that France feared they would merge into one, huge, abomination). “I couldn’t very well let that _idiot_ get himself killed, could I?” The Brit gave a loud, long sigh. His face fell forward and was only saved from (another) collision with the table by his hands. “ _Stu_ pid North Americans.”

France chuckled and sipped his wine delicately before answering, “Though, you must admit…” he paused until England, curious, looked up at him. When their eyes met the Frenchman threw him a saucy wink. “It _is_ quite exciting, isn’t it? Actually, it’s almost-”

“Don’t say it’s romantic.”

“But it _i-_ ”

“No, you _idgit_. There is nothing romantic about _hockey_.”

“Many would disagree.”

“Hockey. Isn’t. Romantic. End of story.”

“Well, America and Canada will have to make up sometime, oui? And, as they say,” a husky laugh, “make up sex-”

“ _NO._ ”

“England, you are _such_ a prude.”

∞

Friday night was almost anticlimactic. America laid waste to Finland with an arrogant ease. Canada, on the other hand, did exactly what he had to in order to reach the gold medal round- he beat Slovakia by one point, as if he wished for a closer game than the last two, or maybe he was saving himself for the _real_ match-

Or maybe, Slovakia really did have him cornered for a second there, and Canada had only _just_ managed to pull through.

Either way, in the end he got what he wanted: a rematch against _dear_ older brother. 

∞

The night of the match, the dim bar was empty- the world was at BC Place, sitting in a row of seats right smack in the middle of the arena in the midst of a sea of red and white. Excited voices filled the building with noise- everyone was tense, excited, all geared up like they were entering a war. This was their rematch- their redemption. Canada had ripped through the competition to get here; didn’t look back once and now it was _time to own some shit, eh?_ Nothing like a little brotherly competition to get the blood boiling.

They ran into each other on the way to their respective locker rooms. It had been nearly a week since they had last seen each other. And now, here they were, only a couple of feet separating them and a whole lot of pride.

America’s lips twisted into one of his easy grins.

“Yo, Canada~” he said with a casual wave, as if they were meeting in the streets and not the Olympics. “What’cha been up to this past week?”

Canada met his brother’s smile with his own wintery smirk, purple eyes flat and cold.

“I think you know already,” He drawled, tucking a stray lock of blond hair behind his ear in a gesture so sarcastically _France_. “It’s been all over the news.”

America lifted his chin arrogantly, causing the lights overhead to reflect off his glasses and hide his narrowed eyes. “Well, I hope you’re a bit more prepared this time, _brother_. My boys need a challenge.”

America was ready this time when Canada lunged, whipping out a baseball bat to block the hockey stick swinging towards his face (and was Canada _aiming_ for his eyes again?!). They struggled against each other, shoes scrabbling for purchase on the smooth floor. 

Their noses were almost touching, so close that their breath fogged their glasses. Neither could see, but neither backed down. They bared teeth, hissed out growls, their knuckles white against their weapons.

“Sorry, America, but I’m going to have to smash your face in, I’m afraid.” Canada gritted out, ignoring the sweat dripping into his eyes.

The older brother huffed a laugh, his own breath labored when he responded, “I’d like to see you try, _wimp_.”

They surged forward at the same time, their entire weight behind their attack. A second later they sprung apart, baseball bat and hockey stick held at the ready, legs planted and lips twisted in a smirk and a grin.

They circled each other, waiting like hockey players waited for the puck to drop. A flick of the eyes, a tensing of the jaw and they threw themselves forward, arms swung back, fingers tightening around wooden neck, mouths open to yell-

Only to find themselves stopped short by strong arms around their chests. The force knocked the wind out of them, making them go limp as they gasped for air.

“Break it up, boys. Save it for the ice.”

“Oui, Mathieu, you mustn’t stoop to _their_ level.”

The twins craned their necks back and were greeted with a grimace and a smile (or was that a leer? There was something always a bit perverted lurking in France’s eyes, Canada thought), and the colours black and white. The North Americans blinked, confused (totally unaware at how very _similar_ they seemed at that moment) and then it clicked.

“Wait. What the _hell_? You two are the _referees_?”

“But France… You don’t know very much about hockey…”

“He knows _shit all_ , Canada! Shit. All. Who said you two could ref our game?”

England gave America a violent shake. “We don’t need anyone’s permission, _brat_. You should be honored we even volunteered!”

America shot the older man an incredulous look. “Dude, you _suck_ at hockey. Canada, tell him he can’t ref our game! It’s _your_ house, right?”

The nation in question pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, shifting uneasily. “Well… Just because they aren’t _skilled_ in hockey…”

“For fuck’s sakes. Fine. Whatever.” America elbowed England in the gut and twisted out of his hold- “Your eyebrows are suffocating me.”- he allowed Arthur to keep a restraining hand on his shoulder, but he kept his baseball bat.

Canada stayed still (though it seemed that France was holding him a bit to close to be considered strictly professional) and flashed his brother a glare, as if only now remembering their fight. He straightened to his full height (something that happened rarely. France reluctantly let him go after receiving an eyebrow-filled stare from England) and pointed his hockey stick at his brother. The curved tip stopped inches from America’s nose.

“Don’t call me a wimp ever again.” He said, quiet but steady.

America gave the stick a bored look, then his brother. “If you can beat me, I’ll think about it.” After another moment, he shrugged off England’s hand and stalked away towards his team’s locker room.

“America.”

The powerful nation stopped, pausing a moment before turning back to his brother with a raised brow.

Canada looked almost serene, standing there across the hall with his hockey stick in one hand and his pride in the other. He spoke in his usual quiet voice, as if stating a simple fact,

“I’m going to bend you over the Canadian bench and fuck you in your star bangled asshole so hard you’ll be spewing red, white and blue for four years.” And then he smiled that Canadian smile which, for the first time, sent shivers down America’s spine. “So sorry.” 

Then he turned on his heel and left, feeling the stares of three nations on his back like lasers and finding his mouth stretched into a grin and heart thumping powerfully in his chest.

∞

“….. This is _your_ fault, you know.” England growled, throwing France an eyebrow-filled glare.

The other nation wasn’t listening. He was still staring after Canada, though the North American had long disappeared. “I’m so proud of him.”

England gave the man a look so full of disgust he was surprised it didn’t come drooling out of his mouth. He instead turned his attention to America, who was still frozen, half turned as he was when Canada had last called his name.

“America…?” England ventured, approaching the younger nation as if he were a wounded animal.

America didn’t blink, even when England was standing right in front of him. His blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, mouth agape.

“…Alfred?”

“He… Did you… He said…”

“Yes, yes he did.”

England watched, a bit worried in spite of himself, as America gave one, long blink. When he opened his eyes again, they were cold with Alaska.

“I’m going to _crush_ him.”

∞

The stadium was a sea of red. Canada was lost in it. Ironic, but only a small feeling of it in the nation’s chest as he stepped to his team’s bench, beside the GM, the coach and behind his players. He was wearing a suit, but his tie was the reddest red he could find. It matched the crowd.

Canada felt a surge of pride as he watched his team circle the ice. He may become just background noise, a ghost in the peripheral after tomorrow, but while he had the world’s attention, he was going to make damn good use of it.

After tonight, whenever someone did see him fully, solid and _there_ , they would recognize _Canada_ : the champion of hockey.

America wasn’t grinning anymore, standing across the ice like on the other side of a mirror, his arms crossed just like his brother’s, his glasses reflecting the red and white lights. Their eyes met and both scowled.

Sibling rivalry? Yes, the most important kind.

The crowd was deafening as the players got ready for the puck drop. The Canadians had listened to their prime minister and were being quite ‘uncharacteristically patriotic’, as Harper requested. Apologies would come later.

The brothers didn’t break eye contact; a staring match before the real one. England held the puck, hovered it over the ice. Canada and America faced off, eyes narrowed behind lens that flashed under too bright lights. Toews dug his skates into the ice. Stastny held his stick like a sword. Their helmets touched. Breaths mingled. America and Canada were like statues. England looked between the two of them, thick brows furrowed. A nod. The puck fell.

America smirked.

Canada smiled.

The game began.

The players crashed into each other like waves, the puck flew from stick to stick down the ice, back and forth. Both teams (both countries) were relentless. England and France were surprisingly nimble on skates, dodging both the players and the puck.

The arena was full of noise: the crowd yelling (in anger and excitement), the sound of skates digging into the ice, hockey sticks against the puck, players against each other or the boards. Netherlands was on his feet in the middle of the countries’ row, waving a Canadian flag like it was his own (pipe between his lips and smoking even though it wasn’t allowed in the building- a thought there, an understanding to be found).

The two brothers fought like it was war and not a game (was it ever really just a game for these two? For Canada?). For half the period, they were stuck in a deadlock, neither able to get past the defenses of the other. Shots were taken and blocked (a howled ‘ _Loooooooooouuuuuu’_ for every save on the Canadian net). Players were hit into the board, each other, the ice- every time they got up again and were off a second later.

7:17 left in the period, a faceoff in the American zone and Canada drew first blood. Miller blocked a face on shot from Richards, threw the puck back at the Canadian like a dirty thing- but Toews was there to grab the rebound and hit it back, squeeze it between Miller and the post.

The reaction was deafening. In the crowd with the other nations, Netherlands nearly jumped right out of the stands. One foot braced on the back of the seat in front of him, he completed a fist pump that had the other countries staring in awe.

Canada allowed himself a smile and refused to feel one shred of pity or guilt for the frustration on the Americans’ faces.

There was still another two whole periods left, not to mention what remained of this one. With 80% of his country watching this game, it was plenty of time for Canada to screw up. 

America knew this. The nations in the crowd, familiar with politics and war, knew this as well.

Still.

The first goal was important and this one belonged to Canada.

That period ended with a penalty against America that seemed to last an age- but no score. 1-0 for Canada. During the break, both North American nations went with their respective teams; didn’t run into each other this time.

As the second period began (with adrenalin sliding through veins of the players like a drug, two referees who _really_ shouldn’t be so good at their job and a row of nations on the edge of their seats (or out of said seat, Canada noted with a smirk, thinking of his Dutch friend)) millions, stretched across the wide country, braced themselves for the longest 40 minutes of their lives.

The second period began with another penalty for America- Malone; high sticking. Canada saw his brother grind his teeth, knew that the man was furious. However, the younger sibling couldn’t get past that freak of nature, Ryan Miller (Canada didn’t _hate_ him, per say. Didn’t have it in him to hate him- a man so good at _his_ game) and the penalty was killed before Canada could pull ahead even further.

The game continued with high-strung tension, Canadians hoping for another goal, but praying harder that they would keep the lead. Minutes passed slowly, but the puck moved so fast it seemed to defy the turning of time. Audiences around the world could barely catch a breath- there was always a chance of a goal, never a moment where they could sit back, relax, go to the bathroom- not when _something_ could happen when they let their attention slip for that _one moment_.

Two minutes later, a penalty for Canada. Eric Staal for interference. For a moment, Canada looked as if he might become violent, swear and pace back and forth behind the bench like the coach beside him. But ever-polite Matthew only muttered one ‘ _fuck_ ’ before taking a deep breath and narrowing his eyes against the urge to _interfere_ with one of the referees (France made the mistake of throwing Canada a saucy wink on his way by. His only answer was an arctic glare. France retreated faster than an Italian on a battlefield- the fasted he’d moved all night).

America was sticking his tongue out at him from across the ice. Matthew wanted to cut it off, but knew that his brother would just end up all pitiful and silent, which would, in turn, make Canada feel sorry for him and guilty for ripping his tongue out in the first place (it was very complicated being himself).

The penalty seemed to last an eternity to the northern nation, but America was unable to score (Canada was tempted to stick _his own_ tongue out now, but saw the deadly scowl on his brother’s face and resisted. He did allow himself to smile).

He nearly missed his second goal because of that. But he managed to catch it as the puck sailed past Miller to hit the back of the American net with a solid _swish_. This time, Canada was the one doing a fist pump from his country’s bench. His team gave shouts of triumph- his people were even louder, on their feet and _yelling_.

“Don’t underestimate the hero, Canada!” America shouted from across that wide expanse of ice. Canada turned to him, was almost frustrated that his brother was _still_ able to smile, even so late in the game. America shoved a finger in his direction and Canada could almost feel it hit his chest. “It’s not over yet, _wimp_.”

And, fuck him, but his brother was _right_. Not only did America score (Kesler, at the end of the second period, damn it), but after the longest third period in the history of Canadian hockey (where they managed to keep the lead, if only barely, right down to the last minute), America’s Parise tied the game, with Miller on the bench.

Canada had never been more furious. He was even more so when the last period ended and he was forced into overtime against his brother.

This _was not_ happening (the World Juniors earlier that year was at the forefront of his mind. That _unacceptable_ loss to America- same conditions as this. Not again. It would _not_ happen again).

Matthew stormed into his locker room with this last thought blazing through his mind like a burning bonfire on the shores of Newfoundland in the fall.

Canada’s team- his beautiful, talented team (half of them captains of NHL teams themselves)- didn’t hang their heads when he entered the room. They looked up, saw their own frustration and disappointment reflected in their nation’s eyes and didn’t dare say ‘sorry’.

Because it wasn’t over yet. And Canada would be _fucked_ if he was going to lose this to his brother. No more Mr. Nice Guy. _He_ produced the Great One. _He_ had the Next One. _He_ was generous enough to let America use so many of his most talented players in his NHL teams. But this time, Canada was going to be selfish. He was going to be arrogant and not be sorry about it. That gold was _his_.

“Listen up.” He said, not loudly or very stern, but quiet and clear so that his words seemed to cut through all other sounds, like an arctic slice of wind through the trees. “We win this and we make history; the most gold medals won by a hosting country ever in the Winter Olympics. We let those Americans get away with a lot of things, but not this. Not hockey.” Matthew threw out an arm, pointing back towards the arena behind him (quite the fabulous gesture; France would be proud).  “Go out there and get me that gold.”

He paused, offered a smile and added, “Please”

Iginla laughed, a deep and hearty sound that instantly had the team joining him. Gradually, the room rose from the silence it’d been laying in as they began to talk amongst each other (planning, suggesting, preparing). Canada found Luongo and Crosby. He said one sentence to each:

“Don’t let my brother get one puck past you, eh?”

And,

“I have a good feeling about you tonight.”

∞

In the crowd, surrounded by fans bathed in red and white (and some blue, to be fair), the world was having its own miniature council.

Most were taking bets.

“I’m going for America. He won the first time and has just forced his brother into overtime. That boosts confidence.” Germany said.

Japan didn’t agree, “Canada has house-advantage.”

“But America has the better goalie.”

“Matthew scored first; that means a lot, right Russia?”

“Da, the little man drew blood before America. It gives his team strength.”

“But America is on a roll- he scored two goals in less time than Canada did.”

“England, aren’t you supposed to be on the ice?”

The Britt rolled his eyes. “I still have time to get down there.” He muttered. “Plus, I needed to sit down. I’m too old to be dodging seven-bloody-foot tall _giants_. On _skates_.”

China scoffed. “Age isn’t the problem. You lack _grace_.”

“Can you dodge _me_ , China?”

“Russia, I don’t think these seats are designed to hold two men.”

“ _I_ think,” Netherlands said from his place further down their row (still standing with one foot on the chair in front of him). “that you are all just wasting your breath.” He inhaled deeply through his pipe (which was red and white to match the Canadian flag tied over his shoulders like a cape). He sighed out a trail of smoke. “Canada’s going to win.”

With a grunt, England got to his feet. “I think you’re biased.” He muttered as he made his way down towards the rink. The other nations watched him go, while some glanced at Netherlands for his reaction (he just shrugged lazily, like a man who knew he was right).

Germany settled back in his seat as the players returned to the ice.  “Only one way to find out.” He said.

Italy wrapped himself around the German’s arm. “France looks so cool skating around down there, don’t you think? Look! He’s waving at us! … Wait, what’s that he trying to say?”

“…Stay away from that man, Italy.”

∞

Overtime began with a rush of adrenalin and the slap of wood against ice. Canada (and America) had 20 minutes to score _one_ goal (that’s all he needed- just _one._ ). Twenty measly minutes to make history.

Or give it up to his brother.

Every shot Canada took made his heart skip; every retaliation against his net by America made his knees weak (as if they were _done_ standing in the limelight for so long and yearned for the background- the easy, soft and quiet place at the back of the world’s mind), but Luongo was steady, so Canada had to be as well.

It was the longest twelve minutes of his life. Back and forth- the teams were evenly matched, as close as the twin nations they represented. But _something_ had to give. They were _not_ identical, after all. America, in the world’s spotlight; Canada, crouching at the very back. Both were strong; neither showed it the same way.

But, as with every game, it had to end. And, not surprisingly, it came down to Crosby. Really, it was only, ever, going to be Crosby (Later, Luongo would say, “I had a feeling Sid would get it.” And Pronger would add, “I’m glad he was born a Canadian.”). He had been strangely quiet throughout the Olympics, outshone by other forwards, like Toews and Heatley,

but, in the end, the Kid scored the one that mattered most. Canada wasn’t surprised.

The nations watched on the edge of their seats, none expecting the goal (much like the rest of the country), as Crosby screamed at Iginla for the puck, took a blind shot and didn’t even see it go in- then the sirens went off and a nation jumped to its feet. It sounded like a million people were there in that stadium, with red and white lights flashing and the Canadian flag blanketing the crowd. Netherlands was up on his feet as well, smoke trailing out of his open mouth with his victorious cheer.

And there was Canada, running out onto the ice with no skates- he didn’t slip once, was one of the first to reach Crosby, slam him into the boards with a yell and a smile so wide it threatened to split his face in two. His team wasn’t far behind. They buried their country underneath hugs of jerseys, hockey sticks, hard plastic and sweet, sweet victory.

Germany, in the stands with Italy practically in his lap (and cheering nearly as loud as the Canadians surrounding them) couldn’t help but shake his head in wonder.

_Canada, just who_ are _you?_

∞

After the medal ceremony Canada made sure to give his brother a hug, because it _was_ the polite thing to do, no matter how frustratingly arrogant one’s opponent was.

“Good match,” he said, not wanting to apologize but finding himself doing so anyway. He slung an arm over America’s shoulders and pulled him close, touched their heads together like they used to as kids. “I can’t let you have everything, eh?”

America grinned, thumbed his nose, said: “I guess so. I mean, I _do_ get the Stanly Cup practically every year anyway.”

Canada hadn’t thought it possible for him to be annoyed with a gold medal around his neck- as it turned out, it was. His hand gripped his brother’s shoulder a _bit_ tighter, “I’m sorry,” he said sweetly, “But I believe that’s because your NHL teams are made almost _entirely_ up of _Canadians_.”

America was smirking, damn him. “Well, wonder why they aren’t playing for _your_ crap teams then?”

Canada was still smiling as his friendly hug turned into a chokehold. “What did you-”

Arms around his waist, strong hands prying apart his grip. “Break it up- break it up, boys~” France sang into his ear, pulling Canada back to fit snugly against his chest. “Come now, you should be _celebrating_ , not fighting, mon cher.” France, as shameless as ever, didn’t let national television prevent him from giving Matthew’s ear a long lick. “However, if your brother doesn’t suit your taste, you can always come to Papa Francis~”

England threw a puck at the Frenchman’s face before Canada could answer. It hit France right between the eyes and he slumped to the ice in a limp heap. Arthur massaged his temples ( _I am way too old for this_ ) and gave a massive sigh. He shot out a furious finger- first at Canada, then America, and said:

“Your welcome.” And “No more fighting.” Before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd.

Canada and America stared after him, then at France’s prone form. After a silent moment, their gazes drifted back up to meet.

“Let’s not ever become like them.” America said.

Canada could only nod.

∞

In the end, Ryan Getzlaf put it best,

“This is unbelievable!” he shouted, “It’s nothing like I’ve ever felt before. I’ve won two world juniors, I’ve won the Stanley Cup…” Then he paused for a second, as if to find the right words,

“This is for Canada.” He said. “This is amazing.”

**FIN**


End file.
